Hello! It`s time for Tuesday Tales.
Today we have the next issue in my historical M/M romance, Dear Jon, which is set in 1945. Every issue of this serial will be under 1500 words so they're quick reads. Our word prompt today is 'Box'. This story contains mature language and gay sexual situations. If that offends now would be the time to move onto another Tuesday Tales offering.
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The smell of fried foods made me salivate. A radio back in the kitchen was playing Flamingo, an oldie by Duke Ellington. Andrew climbed up onto a round stool. No sooner had his ass hit the padded seat and he started spinning around in circles. The man at the counter glanced from his newspaper at the kid whirling like a top beside him.
I was struck by his looks right off. Black hair shot through with silver worn short, eyes as grey as the skies overhead, hint of dark stubble, straight nose, killer jaw, thick neck, broad shoulders covered in a blue and white plaid shirt tucked into dark grey slacks. Just the type I would run after if this wasn`t Hannity Hills. Shit, I could even see the tuft of dark chest hair escaping from where it was left open to show the top of his white undershirt. Hairy men were all that and a Bit O` Honey for me. I placed my hand on Andrew`s leg as he careened past. The spinning stopped instantly. The boy made a snorting sound and tipped into the man trying to eat his pork chops.
“Sorry,” I gasped, lurching over to grab Andrew before he took a dizzy header onto the floor. The waitress exited the kitchen, a plump white woman in her mid-fifties with thick glasses and a kind smile.
“No problem,” he said, a smile playing on lips as full and plump as Betty Grable`s. His voice was rich and deep. I took my seat once again, smiled at the man and then at the waitress. My nephew was having trouble sitting upright, so I held onto the back of his shorts until his head stopped moving in circles. I gave the menu a fast glance.
“I`ll have the meat pie and coffee. What do you want, Andy?” I glanced over at the boy. The man with the stormy eyes was now reading the paper again.
“A Coca-Cola!” Andrew announced. I met the questioning look from the waitress in her neat blue uniform with a frilly white apron.
“Give him a meat pie too and a slice of apple pie for both of us,” I said as I slid the paper menu back to the waitress. She got us our drinks and then disappeared back into the kitchen. Andrew was kicking the counter. I told him to stop. He sipped his Coca-Cola. He dribbled soda on his bare knees. He slid off the stool while I was stirring some sugar into my coffee. After I caught him racing to the front door and was seated again, I heard the newspaper reading man to the left was chuckling at our show.
“He reminds me of my sister`s son,” he said, “nothing but energy. Names Ross Coleman, I own a small shop in town.” He offered me his hand. I took it. His palm was rough, his grip firm and confident. We shook as I introduced Andrew and myself. “Are you from around here?”
“Something along those lines,” I mumbled into my amazingly good cup of Joe. Our meals came then, and any further discussion with Ross Coleman with the slate eyes came to an abrupt halt. I spent the next twenty minutes trying to get Andrew to eat more than four spoons of the superbly seasoned meat pie. He was having none of it. All he wanted was Coca-Cola. Giving up, I let him suck down the bubbly brown treat. Ross had finished his meal, and with a "Pleasure to meet you and the boy" tugged his shirt collar up, slid on a rather battered gray jacket, and laid fifty cents on the counter for his meal and the tip. Out we went into the rain, my eyes rather glued to his well-crafted rump.
Andrew grew petulant as he finished off his second Coca-Cola. His sudden rush of energy baffled me. If I had acted like that my father would have boxed my ears. I gave the waitress two dollars and told her to keep the change. Lord knows she deserved the hefty tip for putting up with the cranky kid for the past half hour. The rumble of the Ford pickup taking off filled the café. It hit me like a ton of bricks. I had never told Ross that I had dented his door.
Grabbing the whining monster like a football, I raced out into the rain, our jackets hanging inside the café momentarily forgotten.
“Damn,” I grumbled as the Ford bounced back towards town.
Andrew, the magpie, began saying ‘Damn’ repeatedly as the rain drenched us in no time flat. Guess there was nothing for it but to try to find the dapper man tomorrow when we went to town.
The waitress opened the door and handed our jackets out to us.
“Damn!” Andrew shouted at her in way of thanks.
Copyright 2013 ©by V.L. Locey
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